Home Planet: Awakening (Part 1) (5 page)

It was their turn to go to sleep as they stood on the cold, steel grating, barefoot in their skin-tight suits. Luker looked along the long straight row of stasis pods, their bubble-like canopies aloft, waiting for their occupants. The bright lights of Module 5 lit every nook and cranny with a diffuse, yet still harsh white light. Apart from some crew and a few select others, the seven levels below had all entered stasis over the last day and a half. They’d left Earth orbit a month ago, having already been on the
Juno
for six. There were some things you couldn’t learn in the virtual teaching environment back at Johnson. Next to each pod was its would-be occupant—each a colonist with a story, full of hopes and dreams for a better world. Many were hoping to make their name, make their mark, find purpose. To his right was the tall, gangly figure of Evert Rietmuller, the quiet, blonde Dutchman who looked young for his age. Luker liked Evert, but couldn’t ever imagine hanging out with him or sharing a lot in common. Decent guy, introvert, harmless enough. Luker knew the world needed all sorts to make it work and he was sure Evert would be an asset to the colony.

Luker reached over his pod and shook hands with his neighbor.

“All the best, Evert. See you in a hundred and twenty years.”

“See you in fifteen minutes,” he replied, referring to the perception of time they’d actually experience.

Luker turned the other way and met the gaze of Kate Alves, standing beside her pod. She looked small compared to the bulk of the one-size-fits-all capsule. He smiled, feeling at home in her eyes. She returned a nervous smile and blew out some over-held breath.

“You’ll be
fine
,” he reassured.

“I’m scared, Dan. I’ve got all these butterflies in my tummy.”

Luker went around and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“That’s natural, Kate. None of us have done this before and the whole thought of it is a bit …
out there
.”

He smiled warmly and went to shake her hand, but instead she hugged the giant former cop, resting her head on his chest for comfort. He hesitated then wrapped his arms around this good, kind woman, with noble aims and a love for teaching and children.

He whispered, “Just lay back and relax. Think of something nice and breathe deeply. It’ll be just like the appendix operation you told me about. One minute you’ll be awake. The next we’ll be waking up at Aura. You’ll sit up, turn your head and I’ll be there smiling back telling you good morning.”

She giggled nervously and nodded.

“You’re right. I’m being silly. We’ve been through all this …”

“It’s fine. Understandable.”

They broke their embrace, Kate Alves looking up at him. She straightened and cleared her throat, her eyes moist with tears. Thrusting out her hand, she put on a brave face.

He smiled and shook it gently, enjoying the feel of her soft skin.

“See you in fifteen minutes, Dan Luker.”

He leaned down and kissed her head protectively.

“See you in fifteen, Kate.”

The voice of Tiro came over the PA system and Luker returned to beside his own pod.

“All colonists due for stasis, please enter your pods, close the canopy and follow the on-screen instructions. On behalf of the captain, crew and myself, we wish you a good sleep and Godspeed.”

The training kicked in and Luker and the other colonists climbed into their pods. Their actions were regimented, by-the-book—no one wanted to be the one to call for crew assistance. Luker took one last look to the neighboring capsule before laying down. He paused, waiting for Kate to look over, and exchanged one last smile, taking the few precious moments to remember her face. He lay down thinking of her, then started feeling guilty once more at wanting anyone but his Juliet.

The canopy whirred shut, placing the small display in front of his eyes.

Sixty seconds later, he heard the colorless, odorless gas fill the sealed pod. Seconds after that came the darkness and the first stage of the stasis. The liquid would come next, enveloping their still bodies and filling their lungs. The bodies of Luker, Kate and the others on Level 8 would remain indistinguishable from a cadaver for years, decades, more than a century. Some would not awaken for a very long time. Most would never live again.

Module 5 was a graveyard. It was probably home to over twelve thousand dead—many of whom I’d known, some of whom I’d liked. And in the case of Kate Alves, was real fond of. In the case of Mike Lawrence saw the beginnings of a close friendship. Now Kate was gone and Mike was missing. Approaching the blast doors to Module 4, I wondered for a moment if the state of the stasis module was all part of the plan. Clearly not Plan A, but maybe it’d been left, the survivors having moved to other parts of the ship or down to the planet. Maybe that’s why some of the pods were empty. The survivors could’ve turned off gravity and non-essential functions and left Module 5 as a giant morgue until they figured out how to dispose of the bodies. In some ways, it made sense. I mean, if the estimated few hundred survivors were trying to make their way on an alien planet, they’d have bigger priorities than disposing of twelve thousand bodies. With no more than two percent of the labor available to set up the colony, and gaping skills gaps, it’d be tough going for sure. But then what of the bullet holes, the slayings? Had there been some kind of uprising or power grab? Reaching the two twelve-foot diameter semi-circular blast doors, I realized there were simply too many unknowns. And the best source of information was the bridge in Module 1. To get there would mean passing through Module 4 then 3 then 2. Perhaps they were all having a big party just next door. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Getting to Module 4 meant opening the blast doors looming in front of me, then passing through the short link tunnel, then opening the blast doors at the opposite end. Where I stood was the upper route—the lower route linked the modules at Level 1, nineteen floors below. Looking around, I clocked the control panel to the right of the segmented alloy door. All going well, the left and right halves would retract into their cavities and I’d simply float on through. I pulled myself along the cold, brushed metal door and held onto the frame next to the panel. During normal operations—prior to stasis—the doors would have been left open, the panel display alive. Now, it didn’t even have a standby light, the screen dark and dusty. I tapped it anyway, but nothing happened. Looking across at the solid door, I knew there’d be no hacking through this one with an ax. Short of a few pounds of high explosives, it’d only open in one of the ways it had been designed to. From training, I knew there were several ways to open it: locally via the panel—scratch that one—or centrally from a few places that weren’t Module 5, or via an automatic emergency protocol. That left me with the fourth option—finding the service hatch and manual operation. Problem was, I couldn’t remember where it was. Logic dictated it’d be close by and reachable when gravity was switched on. The gray alloy bulkhead surrounding the door was shear, smooth and largely featureless. I glanced down and the recessed service hatch door stuck out like a sore thumb. I slid down and crouched next to the eighteen-inch square cover. As well as the dead RFID reader, it sported a mechanical lock with a small round keyhole for times when the reader was unpowered like right now. Great planning as long as you had the key, which I did not. But I did have an ax and this door measured no more than a few millimeters thick. I stood back, pulling the small ax from my suit leg. After lining up the blade, I drew it back and took the first swing. The metal-on-metal
clang
sounded deafening in the still of the gloomy sarcophagus. All it left was a dent. Half a dozen strikes later, though, the bolt sheared, perhaps embrittled by the cold or just due to old age.

I re-stowed the ax and went prone, peering into the service hatch. A flashlight would’ve been useful, but I didn’t have one so waited a while for my pupils to dilate some more. I still couldn’t see into the dark space so had a feel around inside. It was deeper than I’d expected—maybe eighteen inches into the bulkhead. All kinds of switches and dials and sockets lined the left and right sides. The back panel, facing outwards felt flush and bare. Stroking around the bottom then the top surface of the recess, I felt a small control wheel with five spokes but was unsure of its function. Deciding I could either start randomly flipping switches and turning dials or I could have another feel around, I went for the latter. After a few seconds reexamining the featureless back surface I realized there was another panel, except with no handle, button or any other means of opening it. Then, I pressed the panel and it popped open. Behind it sat what I’d been searching for: the hand-winch, which I quickly pulled out beyond the service hatch, extending the handle. Now free of the confines of the recess, it’d be far easier to turn it and manually open the blast doors. The winch reminded me of the ones found on a sailing yacht. For all I knew it could’ve been made by the same company. Kneeling facing the winch I tried to turn it counter-clockwise. After some jerking and forcing it creaked past whatever was seizing it up and started moving. It rotated with a gritty resistance, but the torque needed was minimal once it got going. It seemed to click on every revolution and the blast doors stayed shut, so I tried turning clockwise—but it was a no go. Perhaps the clicking noise meant the mechanism was somehow disengaged.
But why and how and what to do to engage it?
I was missing something.

Five minutes later, after exhausting all other possibilities, I turned the control wheel with five spokes inside the service hatch. I heard a distant releasing of gas somewhere in the link tunnel and assumed it to be some sort of pressure equalization. The noise of flowing air ceased and I tried the open-close winch once more. This time, it took all my strength to get it moving, but move it did. The first turn was slow, but after more than a revolution, I noticed an absence of any clicking noise. Better still, the hairline gap in the center of the door segments had grown to a definite dark vertical line.

Fifteen minutes of hard work later and the segments had parted enough for me to squeeze through sideways. Hungry and weakening, I dreaded the thought of repeating the same thing to access Module 4. But as I floated into the light of the link tunnel, a welcome sight greeted me—the blast doors to Module 4 were wide open.

I pushed off the half-open blast doors of Module 5. Floating toward the opening and Module 4, I thought back to swimming as a kid. Cutting through the water of the municipal swimming pool, I’d feel free in the otherworldly space, willing my forward glide to continue for just a little longer. In zero-g the same push off would go for way longer—it was only air resistance here, not the resistance of water a thousand times denser. Before I realized it, I’d reached the end of the link tunnel. That’s when I noticed the metal deck coming up to meet me.

I didn’t drop straight down—more like a shallow parabola like due to my forward motion. My hands sprung out reflexively, breaking my fall but not saving my knees from a scraping impact leaving my stasis suit ripped at the knees.

I looked up at the broad corridor ahead and smiled.

“Looks like Module 4 has gravity,” I muttered.

I took a moment before pushing myself upright and experiencing my own weight for the first time since I’d awoken—all two-hundred and twenty-five pounds of it. Even though the stasis process had essentially frozen every cell in my body, preserving my strength, it sure didn’t feel that way. It felt a little like getting out of the tub after a long bath, although many times worse. But I stood up okay, so convinced myself it was just the post-stasis weightlessness that had taken its toll.

Module 4 was the same diameter as all the other modules measuring around a three hundred feet. Lengthwise, they varied—this being one of the longer ones at three hundred and fifty feet. I’d never worked it out, but the floor space was similar to that of a large skyscraper, apparently. And that was
per module.

No wonder they needed to build it in orbit,
I thought.

The module’s top half was devoted to quarters—all two-person rooms except for senior crew, senior military and so-called VIPs like the mysterious Reichs. This was where people slept when not in stasis. With around six thousand rooms, the Juno Ark would have made the top ten of the world’s largest hotels—had it been a hotel and had it been on Earth or even in the same star system. I guessed that disqualified it on at least two counts. The lower half of the module contained refectories, three shops selling basic supplies, two gyms, a sports hall, a training center, admin offices, a civilian shooting range, two bars and even a small swimming pool. Where once one might have expected a cinema, there was a virtual-reality center. The VR rooms could simulate environments from sand dunes to the tropical ocean to outer space. Used for both training and leisure, this was a vital resource for getting the colonists ready for Aura. I very much doubted it still worked.

“Never say, never,” I whispered at my own thoughts.

The corridor ahead ran the length of the module, converging on a point far in the distance. The walls and ceiling were standard white paneling punctuated regularly by the gray doors either side. The panels were once glossy but were now matte and dull with signs of mold and dirt around the edges. The lights flush to the ceiling were dead. Only glow strips provided illumination, making it badly lit, although better than the stasis module. The metal grating deck of the link tunnel gave way to silvery-gray alloy covered all over in a geometrical anti-slip pattern. Some of the doors—perhaps one in ten—were open or ajar. The rest were closed. Scanning to the end, I noticed signs of charring on the walls and ceiling about halfway along. Before I started walking, I listened for signs of life. There was nothing but the quiet sounds of the air ducts in the ceiling and the creaking of the hull under external forces unknown.

“Hello! Anyone there?” I called.

All that came back was a faint echo. After not speaking much since awakening, my voice sounded alien to me. Like listening to your recorded self, it seemed almost as if it belonged to another person.

I passed the first open door on my right, peering into the room. Layers of dust and some mold spoiled the otherwise pristine cabin. The bunks were both clear; all the room’s surfaces clear of personal effects. I stepped inside and poked my head into the tiny en suite—nothing. Turning on the faucet, I suddenly realized how dry my mouth was. Not as dry as the faucet. It all looked like a cruise ship cabin ready for its next excited passengers to arrive. One of the smallest, cheapest, budget cabins at that—no space, no porthole and decor with no flair whatsoever. I know because I chased a wanted felon all the way to the Port of Los Angeles and the cruise ship docked there. The guy tried to hide on board. Not the smartest move. Along with the port authority, we isolated the ship and searched it room-to-room. The felon was hiding in closet—again, not a smart move from a not very smart crook.

Keen to get a closer look at the scorch marks in the walkway, I didn’t search the closet in the quarters and left.

I investigated three more rooms on the way to the halfway point. Thinking about it—and from the resolving detail as I approached—the halfway point was where I’d find the stairwell down to the next floor. As I walked toward the fourth open door, it looked increasingly clear that I’d been right—the scorch-marks up ahead were the result of a fire. A few more steps and I reached the half-open door on the right, ten yards from the stairwell doors. There was no reason why I chose only the open doors to look inside. But I couldn’t look in every room. After all, I was just passing through to Module 1 and the ship was huge. I pushed open the door and saw a room as untouched as the others except for one thing—the skeletal remains lying on the lower bunk. This guy had been dead a long time as only the bones and his synthetic stasis suit remained. I knew it was a male from the cut of his stasis suit. He was lying face-up, both hands clutching the left side of his rib-cage. A white gold wedding band with a Celtic weave pattern adorned his ring finger—a personal detail that reminded me this man once loved and someone loved him back.

“Sorry it turned out this way, buddy,” I whispered to him.

I gently shifted his hands and saw why—two bullet holes penetrating the suit’s now grubby material. I poked my fingers inside and felt the sharp ends of shattered ribs inside. Yet again, the cause of death was obvious, but the motive was as opaque as before. I checked for a dog tag, but there wasn’t one, confirming one thing at least—he wasn’t military.

Moving back into the walkway, I approached the stairwell entrance. The soot that had clearly emanated from behind the stairwell doors spoke of a fire that came but burnt out rapidly. I looked closely at the metallic, double sliders to the stairwell that met in the middle. What I had not noticed until then was their shape. They bulged in the middle, which gave way to a thin, black, jagged-edged gap with fingers of melted alloy pointing toward me. It looked very much like an explosion had taken place on the other side. I turned around and examined the opposite wall, darkened with soot and age. A vertical line of micro-shrapnel damage peppered the wall. Around it, I counted fifteen bullet holes.

None of this told the story of peace and unity we’d all been hoping for when we set off. It also didn’t help me find out what the hell happened and where the survivors had gone. But it was a clue at least. Maybe there’d been a rescue and they’d somehow missed me. And Arnold Reichs. I could have dreamt up theories all day long, but I still believed the quickest way to solve these questions was at the bridge. The fastest route was straight ahead, along the corridor to the blast doors and Module 3, but the cop in me had a different idea. I turned around one-eighty and went back to the bulging doors.

A control panel did sit on the wall beside the double doors, but there was no point trying the melted, charred mass of plastic and circuitry. Instead, I grasped either door and tried prizing them open. These were not blast doors, but still didn’t move. I wasn’t surprised. I tried the ax and got nowhere, so I placed it on the ground took a step back then landed a massive running thrust kick on the left-hand door. Now I was getting somewhere. Eight kicks later and the alloy door gave way.